Clopin's Rescue
by Bamfwriter
Summary: Written for Perlusion, inspired completely by her fanart on Deviantart. Clopin is captured and tortured by a rogue lieutenant, then saved by Phoebus. Really short.


_The more things change, the more they stay the same...._

This was the first thought to cross Clopin's clever mind as the darkness receded, and blurry, amber firelight burned his eyes. The return to consciousness was not at all a blessing. For as he stirred to wakefulness, likewise did a myriad of pains from every part of his body. With each pain came the memory of its cause. How many days had he been imprisoned? Why? Why was this happening?

He hadn't done anything wrong... recently.

* * * * *

The evening had started quite like any warm, Parisian evening. Clopin was going about his business, which today was performing a street pageant with several fellow gypsies, Esmeralda among them. The audience was of a good size, and among the townspeople were a half-dozen armored soldiers. This wasn't unusual, of course. Not anymore. Not since the uprising. The haughty, pious, and cruel regime that had been the standard under Judge Claude Frollo was no more. Now, being a Gypsy didn't necessarily mean being a thief. People no longer avoided Clopin and his ilk as scoundrels and immoral heathens. Justice was now common for all people, not just the privileged.

As the show drew to a close, Clopin and his brothers gathered the costumes and props as Esmeralda made the rounds with the collection cap. The take was always more generous when a pretty girl did the soliciting instead of a man. Coins jingled and clinked as they piled up in the cloth hat, the soldiers being most generous of all. Esmeralda was more or less the darling of the regiment, now, thanks to her close friendship with Captain Phoebus. Clopin listened to her thanking them graciously, and informing them of the time and location of tomorrow's pageant.

He smiled to himself, and shook his head a bit. A year ago, if someone told him he and his clan would be accepted and even cherished by the good Christians of Paris, he would have laughed in their face. He looked up as Esmeralda came to him, her emerald eyes sparkling like they did when she was a child, and handed him the money. Then the small group was on their way, chatting amiably amongst themselves about the success of the performance, and discussing creative ideas for new acts as the sun began to set, bathing Paris in ruby light.

Clopin was counting the coins as he walked, and thus falling behind the rest of the group. They passed by an alley, and as the other members of the troupe turned the next corner in the gathering darkness, Clopin was startled by heavy hands on his shoulders. He was pulled forcefully backwards into the darkened alley, and slammed against the wall. A gauntlet-clad forearm was pressed against his throat, cutting off his air and his surprised cry. The moment he was snatched, Clopin's gloved hand went reflexively for the dagger at his waist. Now he raised it, only to have his wrist seized in a fist of iron and likewise crushed against the hard stones at his back.

"Drawing a weapon on one of the royal guards.... Punishable by death," growled a truly nasty and unfamiliar voice. Then the hand at Clopin's throat moved to his face, seized it by the temples, and slammed his skull against the wall with terrible force. There was an explosion of pain and a flash of lights behind his eyes, and the gypsy knew no more.

* * * * *

He came to with his cheek pressed to a grimy, gritty stone floor. Even before his vision cleared, the stench surrounding him filled his nose, and horrors burned into his memories from years past came flooding to the fore. The dungeons!

_No, oh no no no.... I am dreaming. C'est une reve.... PLEASE...!_

Enormous feet in familiar military boots came into focus, and a tiny glimmer of hope allowed itself to flicker to life in Clopin' pain-addled mind. "Phoebus?" he murmured hopefully. The ugly, unfamiliar chuckle that served as a reply made Clopin' blood run cold, and snuffed out the tiny flame of hope. A moment later, one of the booted feet drew back, but Clopin mercifully lost consciousness again before the blow could land.

_The more things change, the more they stay the same._

The next days were a veritable circus of horrors. Clopin's captor was well-versed in a multitude of tortures, and his goal was apparently to see how many of them Clopin could withstand before he broke. As the lash tore his clothing and his flesh once again, the king of the gypsies tried to scream in pain, but all that came out was a hoarse rasp. He had screamed himself mute many hours ago. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall of the torture chamber, the manacles at his wrists cutting painfully into his flesh. Another searing, ripping, shredding blow split the skin of his calf, and his legs gave way. The chains prevented him from reaching the floor, and rather than collapsing to the ground, he dangled like a macabre marionette.

The laughter of the unknown man Clopin had mentally named Lt. Salaud seeped through his mind like blood through silk as the darkness claimed him again.

* * * * *

The next day came...or was it evening? Time had lost its linear quality, and one session of abuse blended into another. Had the rack been yesterday? No, yesterday he was burned by hot irons....

Clopin's body needed rest. He ached for sleep, even amid all the pain. His eyes began to slide shut as exhaustion overtook him. The chains that held his wrists and throat were to short to allow him to sit on the floor, but by locking his knees, he was able to brace himself against the wall with enough stability to allow sleep to come. While it was a light uneasy sleep, it was also blessedly devoid of nightmares. No nightmare could compare with his current reality, anyway....

* * * * *

Stealthy boot-steps made their way through the dim passages of the dungeons, familiarity with the surroundings giving the mysterious figure confidence, even in the near-darkness . Alert ears were perked for any sound... keen eyes taking in every corner, watching for trouble. The large man, shrouded in shadows, entered the chamber where Clopin was imprisoned. A strong, gloved hand reached down, and seized the hilt of the sword at his waist, drawing it out smoothly with barely a sound. Ready for an ambush, the armed man stealthily made his way to the Gypsy's side. When he was certain there was no-one else there, he leaned his sword point-down against the wall, and reached for the limp, sleeping captive.

Clopin was not sure of how long he had been asleep when the presence of another person startled him awake in blind panic. _NO! NO MORE!_ Before his vision could clear, he drew in breath to cry out in denial, in rage, in terror, but before any sound came, a gloved hand quickly, but gently covered his mouth. His fearful heart slammed into his throat, but then his eyes regained their focus, and a familiar face came into view.

"Shhh," Phoebus breathed, a finger to his lips. As he removed his hand from Clopin's mouth, the gypsy gaped for a moment. Then he sagged against the wall and bowed his head, closing his eyes, silent sobs of relief shaking his frail form.

"Phoebus?" he croaked hoarsely, as if speaking the name aloud would ensure that the blond Captain was not a mirage.

"Shh, quiet now," Phoebus reminded him softly, finger to his lips again. He reached out and turned Clopin's face with gentle fingers, studying the injuries. His hazel eyes darkened with rage, the strong jaw flexing. "Merde," he murmured, "Filthy bastard." He produced a ring of keys, and began sorting through them, looking for the correct one to free the Gypsy from his manacles. Sweeping his cloak back, Phoebus knelt, and carefully undid the heavy shackles around Clopin's ankles. As an afterthought, he slipped off the Gypsy's bell-adorned boots as well.

"We don't want you jingling all the way up to the street," he said by way of explanation, looking up at the battered prisoner with a wry little grin, "Not very stealthy."

Clopin just swallowed, and shook his head in agreement. If it meant getting out of this hellhole, he would strip naked. He tried to keep still as Phoebus next undid the heavy metal collar at his neck, and his left hand. But as the blond man reached to unlock the final cuff around Clopin's right hand, movement from behind the Captain caught the Gypsy's eye.

"Look out!" he cried.

Phoebus instinctively dove to the side, lunging out of harm's way as his own sword sliced through the air where his neck had been a moment before. He rolled fluidly to his feet and took a defensive stance as Salaud slowly came toward him, brandishing the Captain's long blade and wearing a nasty leer.

"Well well.... Captain Phoebus... the filthy Gypsy-lover who's brought shame and disgrace to the entire regiment." He raised the point of the sword toward the captain, disregarding the nearly-free Clopin to his right.

Clopin was on the verge of unconsciousness from his pain, but he was enough in possession of his faculties to spy a familiar object tucked into Salaud's belt. His dagger. With deft fingers, he put to use his lifetime of pocket-picking skills, reached out with his free hand and plucked the knife from the other man's belt, concealing it behind his wrist and forearm. But before he could put the weapon to use, Salaud seemed to sense that he was too close to the gypsy, and sidestepped away.

"By whose authority did you imprison this man?" Phoebus demanded, keeping his distance and one eye on the deadly point of the sword. He had seen Clopin acquire the dagger. If only he could herd his adversary close enough for the gypsy to use it. He stepped to the right, circling Salaud, and as he hoped, the lieutenant moved to his right... toward Clopin. But still not close enough for the dagger to be put to use.

"I am under the authority of God," Salaud replied lowly, with a sneer. "These disgusting heathens are an abomination to Him... the devil in human form. It is my duty as a Christian and a soldier to exterminate them, and once I have broken their king, they will be less willing to resist the Church."

Clopin's eyes were bright with fever and strain, but he was focused and intent on Salaud's movement. The man took a step closer, and another, his attention on Phoebus.

Despite his agony and exhaustion, there was no way the gypsy was going to pass up such an opportunity. He reached up and seized the heavy ring bolted into the wall, from which his chains hung. With a roar of anger, desperation and hate, he drew his legs up and kicked both feet against the side of Salaud's head.

"Ungh!" Salaud grunted, falling sideways and dropping the sword. Phoebus darted forward and rammed his shoulder against the smaller officer, knocking him over backwards. He stomped on the point of the dropped sword, and it bounced cleanly into his hand. Gliding forward with fluid grace, he pressed the point of the sword to the fallen man's chin.

"That's enough," the taller man growled. "I am within the law to take your life right now, as I am sure you well know. But I would prefer that you live to stand trial. You don't deserve a quick, painless death, and I refuse to give it to you." Phoebus' hazel eyes fairly glowed with emotion as he spoke, his hands trembling with barely-controlled rage.

As the captain spoke, Clopin used the point of his dagger to pick the lock on the manacle around his wrist. It clicked open, and he rubbed at the raw, bloodied skin as the restraint dropped to dangle against the wall. With pained steps, he moved to stand at Phoebus' side, looking without emotion down at his captor.

"YOU have brought shame to our regiment," Phoebus continued, as Clopin came to stand beside him. "By persecuting an innocent man, you spit on Notre Dame and all she represents."

Salaud remained silent and still, eying Phoebus with fear and loathing. He allowed the gypsy-lover to carry on with his speech, but watched and waited for his moment.... Then kicked out violently with his right leg, and swept the tall Captain's feet from under him. The blond man fell to the hard floor, striking his head on the stones.

"No!" Clopin cried as Phoebus fell. He brandished the dagger as Salaud surged to his feet, expecting the foul man to run like the coward he was. Phoebus moaned, and Clopin made the fatal mistake of taking his eyes off Salaud. With an animal-like roar of anger, the lieutenant pounced on Clopin, seizing his wrist and holding the dagger harmlessly away from his body. Clopin spun away, hindered by the larger man's hold on him, struggling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phoebus struggle to his feet, brandishing his sword.

Taking on two adversaries at one time was more than Salaud could handle. The gypsy was the lesser of his two problems, and so with a violent shove, he sent Clopin staggering face first into the wall. The gypsy gave a yelp of pain, and sank to the floor, unmoving. Grinning in satisfaction, Salaud turned to take on Phoebus... and froze as the captain plunged the sword deep into his chest.

Phoebus watched as his opponent slid off the sword, staring up at the captain with surprise. Then the evil face lost all expression, the body dropped to its knees, and fell sideways to land in a lifeless heap on the cold floor. He was dead.

Phoebus stood there, panting with exertion, leaning on his sword. Then he caught sight of Clopin, lying face-down and too still at the base of the wall. Dropping the sword, the rogue soldier forgotten, Phoebus bolted forward and slid to his knees beside the slight figure. "Clopin?" he called urgently. "Clopin, are you all right?"

A small moan and hitched breaths was the reply.... "No."

Phoebus ran his hands over the gypsy's back and shoulders, taking inventory of his injuries. Then, he carefully took Clopin by the shoulders, and rolled him over, cradling him... and then he saw the blood.

"I'm sorry, Phoebus," Clopin rasped, "I was clumsy." In his graceful, talented hands, Clopin still clutched the dagger, and both it and his hands were smeared with blood. A blossom of crimson was spreading outward from a wound in the gypsy's side. He had fallen onto the dagger when Salaud threw him into the wall.

"Clopin...dieu...," Phoebus whimpered as he laid the injured man gently down. He had to stop the bleeding, or the gypsy was going to die right here in front of his eyes. He took off his cloak, snatched the dagger from Clopin's trembling hands, and cut several long strips from the hem of the garment. Then he took two hands full of the fabric of Clopin's tunic, and ripped it open, taking some small measure of comfort when he saw the wound was not as bad as he first thought.

"Phoebus...," Clopin breathed weakly, reaching a bloodied hand up toward the captain's face.

"Be still," Phoebus replied sharply as he used the strips of his cloak to bind the wound up. "Don't talk, I want you to stay absolutely still." He raised a hand to brush wetness from his cheeks, and sniffled, angry at himself for his lack of control.

"I just wanted to say... thank you," Clopin rasped, trying to smile. "Thank you for rescuing me...." He closed his eyes, as if the strain of keeping them open was too much.

The captain finished bandaging his friend's wounds, and wiped his hands on his trousers. "You're welcome," he muttered, trying to keep his voice neutral, even though his heart was thundering with concern. "Stay alive for me, and we'll call it even, all right?" He swaddled the injured man in the remains of his cloak, and carefully sat him up.

The gypsy king sagged against his rescuer, his head lolling on Phoebus' shoulder. "I cannot make any promises," he said, and chuckled sadly. Then he groaned as a wave of pain shot through his abdomen.

"Hold on to me," Phoebus said softly, sliding his hands under the gypsy's body. The slender arms came up blindly to wrap around his neck, and Phoebus moved smoothly to his feet with Clopin in his arms, trying not to jostle him. As he turned and stepped over the body of the rogue soldier, Clopin began to sob, softly. Phoebus swallowed hard, and felt his eyes filling with tears as the gypsy pressed his face into the crook of the captain's neck and trembled.

"Shhh, it's all right," Phoebus breathed against Clopin's temple. "It's over...."

THE END

French used:  
C'est une reve (It's a dream)  
Merde (shit)  
Dieu (God)  
Salaud (Bastard)


End file.
